


A Birthday on the Run

by KChan88



Series: Sailing By Orion's Star: Deleted Scenes [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: Courfeyrac's 15th birthday a few months after the Trio runs away from Port Royal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadneslostthread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/gifts).



**St. Kitts. 1705.**

They’ve been thrown off another ship.

It wasn’t the first, Courfeyrac muses, and nor was it likely to be the last. Finding work on merchant ships not connected to East India in some way grew more difficult by the month given the Company’s expansive power. That, combined with many captains’ dislike of Combeferre’s skin color and being constantly on the run from Michel made keeping any work harder and harder. Plenty of boys went to sea when they were as young as twelve, so at fourteen they weren’t looked at twice-aside from when they were recognized from the missing posters-and that was their only saving grace.

Well, Courfeyrac supposes, fifteen, now. At least for him. Enjolras was next, then Combeferre, and he took pleasure in being the oldest by two months or so.

He sits in the dilapidated, no-questions-asked inn where they’re staying, no different from the others they’ve found aside from the fact the door to the room actually locks. Enjolras and Combeferre are out finding supper while Courfeyrac takes his turn guarding the room just in case. It’s not the best birthday, all things considered, but it’s also better than his last one in Port Royal, nearly forgotten by his parents in their excitement over the announcement of his mother’s pregnancy, a hasty dinner prepared with his favorite type of pie for dessert, fake smiles stretched out across everyone’s faces. The birthdays were better when he was younger and his parents less wealthy and more attentive, and looking back on the fonder memories of earlier days put an ache in his chest when half the time afterward, they barely noticed he existed.

At least this year he could spend it with Enjolras and Combeferre. At least this year, they were free. And that counted for nearly everything.

“Where have they gotten to?” he wonders aloud. “They’ve been gone a while.”

As if summoned by his words he hears the scrape of the key in the lock and the door opens, revealing Enjolras and Combeferre with food from the nearby market in hand, along with two other boxes.

“My but this looks practically like a feast,” Courfeyrac says, eyeing the pieces of chicken, potatoes, and a few vegetables. “What’s the occasion?”

“Your birthday,” Enjolras says, matter of fact. “You deserve something nice to remember it by.”

“And we can afford something nice?” Courfeyrac asks, eyeing his friends’ worn boots and his coat with the holes in it.

“I used some of the money of my mother’s we had left,” Enjolras says, laying out the food on the wooden plates left by the innkeeper, and Courfeyrac chooses not to wonder about the last time they were cleaned.

“But don’t we need that?” Courfeyrac protests. “Frantz, surely you…”

“I am in full agreement,” Combeferre says, grinning wryly as he slaps Courfeyrac’s hand away when he tries opening one of the mystery boxes. “We couldn’t let your birthday go by unmarked, just as you wouldn’t with ours.”

“We will make it through this,” Enjolras says, that warm surety in his voice lighting Courfeyrac’s worries as it always does, and he finds himself eager now, to know what the packages contain.

“Indeed we will,” Combeferre says, smacking Courfeyrac’s hand away again. “But for now let’s celebrate your birthday, shall we?”

“Hear hear,” Enjolras says, a soft but genuine smile gracing his features, his face thinner than when they’d left, but nonetheless bright, the small scar above his eyebrow Javert left as a parting gift finally fading from angry red to white. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

“Ah but Rene my cruel friend,” Courfeyrac says, slipping an arm around his friend’s waist. “Are you going to make me wait for what’s inside the boxes?”

“I suppose we could show him the first,” Combeferre decides, catching Enjolras’ eye. “Then torture him and wait for the second. Suits everyone.”

Enjolras nods in agreement, chuckling, and Courfeyrac dives for the first box.

“Only half the cruelty then,” he says. “Excellent.”

Enjolras and Combeferre stand closer together, watching him open the box with a more pronounced light in their eyes. Courfeyrac grins at them, opening it and finding a new coat laying inside. It’s simple cloth, but a deep navy blue that he likes, and longer than the one he wears now, which has since grown too short.

“This must have been expensive,” he breathes, hand running over the cuff. “You really didn’t…”

“It’s better than you walking around with your shirtsleeves wet all the time because your coat has holes in it,” Enjolras says. “You need a proper one if we’re going to be at sea as we are.”

“But your boots,” Courfeyrac protests. “Both of you need new ones soon, your toes are already pinching.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Combeferre says. “But try it on, won’t you? We want to be sure it fits. Can’t exactly get things tailored anymore.”

Courfeyrac squirms in delight and slides the coat on, feeling brand new in the fresh material despite his dirty breeches.

“Arms are a bit long,” Enjolras remarks. “But I’m sure you’ll grow into it. It suits you.”

“I love it,” Courfeyrac declares. “Thank you both. Truly.”

Before they respond Courfeyrac throws his arms around the both of them, pulling them in tight.

“Thank you,” he repeats as they return the gesture.

“You’re most welcome,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras just embraces him tighter, enough love between the three of them to fill this whole dreadful inn.

They polish off their food quickly; they haven’t eaten properly since this morning, and Courfeyrac savors the food from the market, far better than anything they get while out at sea on a merchant ship. When he opens the second, smaller box, he shouts in glee.

“Chocolate pie!” he says. “You are too good to me.”

“Shout it any louder and the people next door might come and steal it from us,” Combeferre teases, dry, elbowing Courfeyrac in the ribs.

“They will have to fight me for these three pieces of pie,” Courfeyrac says, brandishing a fake weapon. “To the _death_.”

Enjolras laughs at this, a glint of merriment in his tired eyes, and Courfeyrac takes the box and three forks, climbing onto the small bed they share and gesturing for the other two to follow him. It’s never very cold in the Caribbean, but the breeze tonight holds a slight chill through the open window, so he pulls the covers up and the three of them slide under before digging into the pie with gusto. It sticks to their fingers and somehow also to Courfeyrac’s face, and soon there’s nothing left but the barest crumbs.

“I’d say we got our money’s worth with that pie,” Courfeyrac proclaims. “My compliments to the baker, whoever they are.”

“A kindly lady at a bakery near the market,” Enjolras informs him. “I think she charged us less than she normally would, and gave us bigger slices at that. I suppose we look rather skinny, and she seemed to sense it was a special occasion.”

“She was very friendly,” Combeferre adds. “It was nice to see, given today.”

Courfeyrac takes Combeferre’s hand at that, chocolate still smearing his skin, and Enjolras takes the other. They breathe in deep together; tonight there’s no one chasing them, no jumping at the sound of creaking stairs or suspicious footsteps, no diving out the window at the sound of East India soldiers just below them, ordered to search the inn on behalf of Captain Michel Enjolras. Tonight it’s just the three of them, the stars outside, and a sense of peace among the chaos.

“Happy birthday, Auden,” Enjolras says as they lay down, keeping each other warm as they always do, and Courfeyrac finds he doesn’t know if he could sleep alone anymore.

“And a wish for a great many more,” Combeferre says, blowing out the candle on the bedside table, the full moon flooding in through the window, a pool of light glowing through the darkness.

Courfeyrac grins, a contentment filling him up, turning over and kissing each of his friends’ cheeks before laying back against the pillows, sandwiched comfortably between the two people who mean the world to him. And with them, he’s certain, he can take on the world itself.

For the first time in weeks, he sleeps soundly.

 

 


End file.
